


lipstick prints on coffee cups

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cat Cafés, Established Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, F/F, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021 (The Magnus Archives), gratuitous use of cat ocs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Georgie hands Martin his tea—black with milk and a sugar, the usual, nothing noteworthy or special about it—and says, casually, “What’s Melanie’s type?”.From the first moment Melanie King from Ghost Hunt UK walks into Georgie’s café, Georgie is utterly smitten.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 58
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	lipstick prints on coffee cups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbianbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbirds/gifts).



> my gift fill for lesbianbirds for the tma valentine’s day exchange 2021! 8.5k of pure unadulterated fluff <3
> 
> no content warnings apply (but of course please let me know if you see something that does need tagging!)
> 
> thanks to Gla22 for betaing!
> 
> happy valentine's day!

The coffee pot is empty. _Again.  
_

With a long, drawn-out groan, Melanie opens the cabinet above the kitchenette sink and pulls out the container of _unbearably_ cheap coffee that Martin had picked out last month when he’d restocked the cabinets.

(“Melanie, I don’t _drink_ coffee, how am I supposed to know what is and isn’t ‘a good brand’?” Martin had said, sounding affronted and snappish in that way he always gets when his beverage-purchasing decisions are questioned—though that typically only applies to tea.

“Martin,” Melanie said, trying to keep her voice calm and neutral despite forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “If it’s less than five pounds, it’s not _good coffee._ ”)

Soon, she’s got a pot brewing. The smell of it is almost enough to drag her out of the mid-morning fog that’s got her eyes unfocusing on the screen, making her see things in the footage that aren’t there. _Some_ people would say that none of the things they point to in their videos as proof of the supernatural are real, and while it’s true that artistic license is a good portion of the job, their footage is _not_ tampered with. Ever. She just sometimes has to look at it for hours to find what she’s searching for.

Thus, coffee.

It warms her from the inside out as she sits back at her desk and begins to click through the footage, despite the acrid, sooty film it leaves on her tongue that has her grimacing. She almost doesn’t notice that she’s emptied her mug until she picks it up to take a sip and finds it absent of liquid.

She’s debating the pros and cons of having another cup less than an hour after the first when Martin’s voice drifts over from the doorway, sounding amused. “I thought you said you didn’t like that coffee?”

Melanie sets the mug down on the corner of her desk with a _clink_ and says, “Yes, well, we do what we have to to survive around here, Martin. Even if it _is_ suffering through some terrible coffee.”

When she turns to look at Martin, there’s a small smile on his face that one might call a _smirk_ if they knew him well. “Think you could put that suffering on hold?” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Jon’s café opened today, and I was planning on stopping by for lunch. They’ve got an espresso machine?”

Melanie’s nose wrinkles before she can help herself. “Ugh, sorry,” she says, waving a hand at Martin as if that can alleviate the small furrow that’s appeared in his brow. “It’s just—the first and _only_ time I’ve ever seen your partner, they spent most of their time lecturing me on the inaccuracies of my show! _Our_ show, Martin! While we were out recording something! On _tape!_ ” To herself, she mutters, “Part of me wants to release them as bloopers just to see what happens. ‘Ghost Hunt UK: Selfish Prick Edition.’”

“They _did_ say they were sorry,” Martin says, sounding apologetic. “And- well, I mean, to be fair, a _lot_ of the things they pointed out actually _were_ facts we’d gotten wrong in the research, so…”

Melanie gives him a look that could cut through bone. “It still shouldn’t give them the right to just _say_ whatever they—”

She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. She’s already had this discussion with Martin at length; it doesn’t bear repeating. Her therapist, at least, has been trying to get her to stop dwelling on past angers. “Fine,” she says, hoping that her words don’t sound too forced. “Can you just- can you _promise_ me this won’t turn into another attack on our legitimacy? _Please_?”

Martin’s smile is relief and delight in equal measure. “I promise,” he says in a way that from anyone else would seem empty but coming from Martin is binding and true. “They’ll behave.” He laughs lightly and continues, “Though they _did_ just do this deep dive on London subterranean tunnels—checked out nearly every book in the library and everything. Maybe you could talk about the Millbank Prison tunnels we’re planning on exploring next week? Might be fun, to debate facts off-camera.”

“Sure,” Melanie says, entirely unconvinced. “That won’t go poorly at all.” Before Martin can respond, she pushes back from her desk with a small sigh and says, “All right, then. For you, Martin, I will visit Jon’s- what was it, a cat café?”

“And a bookstore!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks flushing a light pink.

“Right,” Melanie says, suppressing another sigh. She _does_ like cats, after all. And espresso. She could certainly use some right now. “I suppose we’re taking our lunch break now, then?”

“If you’re free.”

“Well, given that I’m my own boss, I can safely say that I am.”

Melanie slips on her coat and follows Martin out of her office and out of the building, leaving her empty coffee-stained mug balanced on the edge of her desk.

* * *

In retrospect, not setting up a gate to keep the cats out of the food preparation area was probably a bad idea. Georgie sighs and swipes the three muffins with bite marks in the sides of them into the bin, resolving to stop by the shop that night to pick up the requisite supplies to keep the fluffy, bread-loving felines she’d so dearly and painstakingly selected from the shelter from ravishing the food they were _meant_ to be serving to the customers.

“That would be the Chairman,” Jon says, reaching around Georgie to slide the glass cover over the remaining muffins. “He can be _quite_ clever when he puts his mind to it.”

“Hm, but not when he’s meant to be keeping out the pests, I suppose,” Georgie says with lips curled into a smile almost against her will. The cat in question is sat on the windowsill, carefully grooming his rich black fur in full view of passersby and the few customers sitting at the tables. It’s still early, Georgie tells herself, and they’re new—not a lot of built-up rapport yet. Give it time.

She’s never been known for her patience.

Jon’s just handed off a steaming mug of tea to a customer—oolong, she thinks—when he turns to her with eyes alight, like he’s just recalled something, and says, “I’m not sure if I told you, but Martin’s stopping by today. Have- have you met him yet?”

With careful neutrality, Georgie says, “I have.”

Jon seems to take that at face value, his face relaxing into a light smile as he busies himself with another cup of tea and says, “Well, he told me he’d stop by around lunch today, just to say hello and to see how the café is coming along. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you again.”

Georgie’s… _not_ quite so sure about that. The first and only time she’s ever seen Martin was when she, he, and Jon had gone out for drinks one night, about two weeks after Jon had started dating him. Martin had sipped his tonic, pressed himself closely against Jon’s side, and spent the entire night not-quite-so-subtly staring daggers at her every time she laughed at something Jon said or reached out to lightly squeeze his hand. She’s never found jealousy a particularly good look on a person. (Particularly when it’s completely unwarranted; she and Jon broke up _years_ ago, before he’d even left uni, and the thought of her being some sort of _romantic competition_ is honestly a bit laughable.)

And so maybe she’d never made an effort to reach out again, deciding that one awkward night of drinks was enough for her. Martin had certainly never made such an effort in return.

“Sure,” is all Georgie says before turning back to the muffins.

They take a few more orders, make a few more drinks, and chase the Chairman away from the muffins more than a few times. Jon tries to tell Georgie that they’re supposed to be putting _three_ pumps of vanilla in their lattes, which is _ridiculous—_ it’s always been two pumps, it’s not Georgie’s fault that Jon has a secret sweet tooth. The disagreement is teetering just on the line between bickering and fighting when the little bell above the door clangs. Georgie’s eyes automatically follow the sound.

The first person she sees is Martin, black-and-white scarf wrapped up to his chin and cheeks flushed a rosy red from the cold. His face splits into a wide, cheery grin as he spots Jon, and out of the corner of her eye, Georgie sees Jon soften. She recognizes the expression on his face from when they dated in uni; it’s the same as the one that would surface when the Admiral would jump on his lap or when Georgie would bring him tea or when he would spot her across the quad in between classes.

Being in love is a good look on Jonathan Sims, Georgie thinks absently, and not without fondness.

Then, Georgie’s eyes alight on a second figure, following Martin in through the doorway. Her coat is zipped all the way up to her chin, long black hair twisted up into two tight topknots messy enough that they appear to be born more out of convenience than out of fashion. She’s almost as tall as Martin, nearly as skinny as Jon, and Georgie thinks she sees a glint of metal on the side of her nose, on the shell of her ear. Her mouth is tilted into a frown but her eyes are curious as they wander about the café, landing first on the cats, then on the bookshelves lining the walls, and then on the coffee grinders and stainless steel water heaters behind the counter.

Her eyes find Georgie. And Georgie realizes with a start that she _recognizes_ her.

“Jon,” Georgie says, but Jon’s already gone, stepping around the counter with a mug in their hand and an infatuated grin on their face directed entirely toward Martin—and maybe a bit toward the cat that’s decided to make its home in Martin’s arms. So Georgie follows him, brushing past the orange-furred Minister as she does so and trying not to sneak too many surreptitious glances at the woman she’s seen hundreds of times on her laptop screen, framed in neon greens and black-and-whites and sepia tones.

She clearly doesn’t succeed, from the way that Martin follows her gaze to the woman before saying abruptly, “Oh! Right, sorry—forgot. Er, Melanie, this- this is Georgie. Jon’s friend!”

Melanie—Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK, standing here in the middle of her _cat-café-slash-bookstore_ —regards Georgie with a look she can’t quite place. Then, Melanie holds out a hand. Her fingernails are painted a glittering green, Georgie thinks, then realizes she’s been staring at the hand altogether too long and reaches out to shake it.

“Right, Georgie. Georgie Barker. It’s… it’s nice to meet you.”

_Huh. Her hand is softer than it looks on camera._

Before Georgie has time to unpack _that_ thought, Melanie gives her that _look_ again, and Georgie realizes that it’s _scrutiny,_ with a bit of curiosity behind it. “Huh,” Melanie says, like Georgie’s just given her a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel. “You sound familiar.”

“Maybe I’ve just got one of those voices,” Georgie says with a disarming smile. She’s still holding onto Melanie’s hand. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

She lets go, though that doesn’t help the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. The butterflies climb up her throat, loosening her tongue, and she says without thinking, “Or maybe you’ve heard my podcast? _What The Ghost?_ It- it runs every other Saturday.”

Melanie’s eyes grow just a bit wider then. “ _No,_ ” she says disbelievingly. “ _Georgie?_ Martin, your partner’s best friend is **_What the Ghost?_ ** Georgie?”

Martin’s eyebrows dip into a frown. “Er… yes? Sorry, I- I suppose I never really mentioned it, did I? Sort of… assumed you already knew. Small ghost hunting world and all.”

Melanie looks at Georgie with a sharp, delighted glitter in her eyes. “Huh. Jonathan Sims’ ex is Georgie Barker from _What the Ghost?_. Who also owns a _cat café._ Stranger things, I suppose.”

“Slash bookstore,” Georgie says with a smile. “And besides, _Jonathan_ never told me that Martin’s Melanie was _Melanie King!_ ”

“Oh, they talk about me?” Melanie says with a smirk.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” Jon says sullenly. Their grimace contrasts quite starkly with the trio of grey kittens they have cradled in their arms. One is valiantly trying to climb up into their hair. “Besides, I thought it was obvious. Martin does sound for Ghost Hunt UK, he has a coworker named Melanie, therefore Melanie is Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK. It’s really not that much of a leap, _Georgina._ ”

Georgie swats at Jon’s arm. “You never _said_ she was a coworker! Jonathan Sims, this _entire_ time you had a connection to Melanie King and you never _said_ anything?”

Jon directs their sullen look at Melanie. “I wouldn’t say… _connection,_ per se.”

“We’ve only met once, and they spent the entire time criticizing my setup and my story,” Melanie says, arms crossed and chin jutting out defensively, not dissimilar to a cat with its hackles raised.

“If that’s what you call fixing your _facts,_ then fine,” Jon says with equal posturing, their mouth set into a firm line. “I admit that I should have waited until _after_ we had left the shoot, but I will not apologize for correcting obvious mistakes!”

Melanie’s mouth opens, retort ready on her lips, when Martin says quickly, “Jon, why don’t you show me that book you were talking about? The, er, the one about the overlap between sea monster myths and geographical phenomena? I think you told me about the Scylla and Charybdis one last night, but I can’t quite remember what event you said it correlated with? A tsunami, maybe?”

Jon’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. They rub an absentminded thumb over the head of one of the kittens, chew on their bottom lip, and then say, “A hurricane, actually, which caused tsunami-like effects when it—here, I’ll just find the book for you. I think it’s in the back room.”

“That would be lovely,” Martin says, giving Georgie a wide—and not-too-subtly apologetic—grin before following Jon past the counter and into the smaller secondary part of the café meant only for books, the Minister trailing closely behind.

Melanie’s forehead is still set in a frown, but it softens a bit as she looks at Georgie and says, “Er. Sorry about that. Not my _best_ first impression, arguing with someone else’s best friend in front of them.” Her lips curl into a smile, sharp and teasing yet warming Georgie to her core. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee to make it up to you?”

Georgie doesn’t really drink coffee, much preferring a strong green tea; the caffeine gives her headaches, and she’s always found it too bitter for her liking.

“That sounds lovely,” Georgie says. Then, with a teasing smile of her own, she slips back behind the counter and adopts her most put-upon customer service voice. “What can I get started for you?”

* * *

The next two months are… well, they’re really quite lovely. The café picks up after the first few days (which may or may not result from Georgie shameless plugging it on that week’s episode of _What the Ghost?_ ), all future muffins are saved from devastation by the cheap plastic gate Georgie picks up from the shop, and every day Jon talks her ear off about whatever book he’s last consumed.

When he’s not talking _Martin’s_ ear off about it, that is. Because Martin stops by the café nearly every day, to the point where Georgie’s sure his bank account must be suffering from how many pounds he’s shelled out on coffee and sandwiches (which, as they’re set at Chelsea prices, are _not_ cheap). He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He sits at the corner table, the one that lights up wonderfully in the noonday sun, with the Baroness sat upon his lap—a slim calico with a notch in one ear who’s taken a liking to Martin. Jon sits at the table across from him, both of them wearing those silly little infatuated smiles on their faces as they talk that Georgie is surprised haven’t faded even after nearly six months.

Maybe she should make more of an effort to get to know Martin. She doesn’t remember the last time she saw Jon quite so… _peaceful._

And then, of course, there’s Melanie. Who accompanies Martin to the café sometimes, more and more as the weeks stretch on until it’s almost every day that Georgie gets to admire the sharp slant of her nose and the way that she smiles, like she’s just heard a joke and finds it very funny indeed. Georgie ends up hiring extra staff—Tim and Sasha, who interviewed together (which was strange) but who connected so well with Jon that she thought it a shame not to hire them both—and so she can take a few minutes off when Melanie stops by to talk. They talk about what places they’re planning on investigating and their most ridiculous episodes and the kinds of messages they’ve gotten from fans (ranging from flattery to outright hate mail). They talk about their favorite kinds of pastries and where they prefer to spend their Friday nights and their records for the number of drinks consumed in a single sitting (which Melanie wins by a large margin). They talk about their university years and their friends (because _Jon’s really quite lovely once you get to know him,_ Georgie says, and _What do you mean you don’t like Martin? What’s not to like?_ Melanie says) and their favorite childhood memories.

“My dad’s allergic to cats,” Melanie says one day, her fingers buried deep in the Chairman’s fur as she talks. “I always wanted one when I was growing up, got proper annoying about it for a while before he finally told me that it just wasn’t going to happen. We got a dog instead—Dandelion, she- she was wonderful, really, an old dog from a shelter—and then I moved away for uni, and the flat I’m in now isn’t pet-friendly, so…”

She makes a helpless gesture with her free hand. “This is nice, though,” she says and scratches the Chairman behind the ears. He makes a small, contented noise. “Shelter cats?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, a hint of fondness slipping into her voice. “They’re all up for adoption, technically. We’ve only found homes for a few of them though, which if I’m being _totally_ honest, I’m not too disappointed about.”

“They do grow on you,” Melanie says. The Chairman meows again, as if in assent.

“Mm,” Georgie says. Then, after a moment: “I’ve already got a cat at home, though, and he doesn’t take well to other cats. Tried once and it didn’t go well; had to have a friend take the new cat, felt right awful about it too.”

Melanie makes a sympathetic noise. Then, with a small smile on her face, she says, “What’s his name?”

“The Admiral.” At the look on Melanie’s face, Georgie laughs lightly and says, “Yes, yes, I know—I have a naming type. Jon’s already teased me more than enough for it—though I honestly think it’s rubbed off on him.” Her eyes light up, and she digs her phone out of her pocket. “Here, do you want to see a picture of him?”

She flips through the approximately two hundred photos of the Admiral on her phone before saying, nerves making her voice a bit too high, “I, er. I get off at five today. Do you… do you want to meet him? In person, that is.”

Melanie’s smile is like caffeine, sending her heart stuttering in her chest. “Do you even have to ask?”

So then Melanie’s in her flat, and she’s petting her cat, and she’s taking tea—black, just a bit of sugar—in the large yellow mug that Georgie likes, and she’s just so achingly _beautiful_ that Georgie thinks she might die. Most of the time Melanie wears her hair up, in high ponytails or coiling braids or twin topknots, like the first time Georgie had seen her, stuck through with pencils or chopsticks or, on one memorable occasion, plastic forks. 

(“Look,” Melanie had said, cheeks heating with embarrassment, “one of my chopsticks broke as soon as I got to work, and all we had were the forks. No, stop _laughing_ at me—Georgina Barker, this is _not_ funny!”)

But sometimes Melanie wears her hair down and Georgie realizes how long it is, brushing just above mid-back. It looks soft. Georgie finds herself wanting to run her fingers through it so badly that her hands twitch by her sides, but she doesn’t ask. She’s not _that_ far gone yet.

It’s one night at Georgie’s flat, when Melanie’s got the Admiral on her lap and there’s a film going in the background that neither of them is paying any attention to, when Georgie realizes _exactly_ how ‘far gone’ she really is. When Melanie says, haltingly, “So, you- you said you’d done a piece on the Black Lady of Bradley Woods, right?”

Georgie’s brow furrows as she thinks back. “A few seasons ago, I think.” She thinks she remembers Jon dragging up a history book for that one and lecturing her for a good hour and a half on the War of the Roses until she finally relented and changed the script to include a large section on it. “Why?”

“Oh, just- just wondering.” Melanie looks down at the Admiral; he gives a particularly contented purr and nuzzles into her hand, drawing a small smile to her face that Georgie immediately memorizes and files away for later. “I… I was thinking of doing a Ghost Hunt UK episode about it, actually?” she says, her cheeks coloring a light red. “And I thought—well, since you have some _experience_ with the subject, maybe… maybe you would consider. Er. Guest-starring on the episode?”

Georgie’s mouth is suddenly very dry, her pulse quick as a hummingbird’s in her throat. _Honestly, Georgina. It’s not like she’s asked you out on a date._

(Though Georgie would like that. She would like that very much.)

“Only if you’ll guest-star on _What the Ghost?_ ,” Georgie’s mouth says, entirely without her permission. But once it’s out there, Georgie finds that she really, _really_ likes the idea of it. Them, tucked away in Georgie’s guest room that she’s converted into a studio, talking about ghosts and laughing and reading the _horrible_ adverts she’s forced to incorporate—well. It sounds very lovely indeed.

“Oh, an ultimatum?” Melanie says, humored. Her smile is like wildfire, sending Georgie’s cheeks alight with flames that threaten to consume her utterly. “Well, then. I accept your terms, Georgie Barker. Perhaps you would like it in writing?”

“Oh, over a cup of tea would suffice,” Georgie says, and she knows that her face is nearly split in two by a grin and that she probably looks utterly ridiculous. But she can’t find it within herself to mind.

* * *

“I need your help.”

Jon nearly drops the stack of books they’re holding. The yelp they let out is quite undignified, and if asked, they will maintain that it _never_ happened. (And since they’re in the back room of the café, there’s nobody around to hear it but the two of them.) “ _Jesus,_ ” they say, shooting Melanie an irritated look softened by the shock still making their heart beat at a rapid-fire pace. Then, a bit petulantly: “Help with what? If I recall correctly, the last time I tried to help you, you decided you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“That wasn’t _helping,_ ” Melanie says through gritted teeth. “That was being _condescending_ and _rude_ in front of my coworkers.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “But this isn’t _about_ that. Believe me, I would _much_ rather not be talking to you about this—”

“Great,” Jon says flatly. “I’m charmed.”

“— _but,_ ” Melanie continues, the look on her face dreadfully pained, “you’re Georgie’s best friend, so I really don’t have any other options.”

With no small amount of apprehension, Jon says, “Help with _what,_ Melanie?”

Melanie’s expression is not unlike that of someone who’s just sat down in the dentist’s chair to get a tooth pulled. “What’s Georgie’s favorite food?”

Jon just _stares._ “What?” they say after a long moment of silence.

Melanie makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck, Jon, do you want me to spell it out for you? Should have known this was a waste of my time—”

“I don’t think Georgie _has_ a favorite food,” Jon says quickly when the bite to Melanie’s voice grows sharp at the edges. “Maybe- maybe _lángos_?” At Melanie’s blank stare, they continue, “It’s, er. It’s deep-fried flatbread? She always orders it from the takeaway Hungarian place she likes—er, _Miko’s Kitchen_ , I think?”

“Takeaway,” Melanie echoes. “Yeah, that’ll do.” After a beat, she says, begrudgingly, “Thanks.”

“Right,” Jon says, equally as begrudgingly. They’re not really sure they _want_ to know, but—

“Why do you ask?”

The tips of Melanie’s cheeks go pink, and she says brusquely, “No reason.” She spins on her heel and makes to leave; then with her back to Jon, she pauses and says, “Do _not_ say anything to Georgie.”

“What?” Jon says, confused. “Why?”

But Melanie’s already gone.

Jon stares at the books in their hands, then at the door that leads to the rest of the café. They see Melanie disappear through the front door, the bell jingling behind her.

“ _What?_ ”

* * *

Georgie’s always liked routines. They provide structure to life that she finds comforting, and there’s enough room for variation within them that she doesn’t get bored. Wake up, get dressed, go to the café, come home, do some work on the next _What the Ghost?_ episode, and go to bed, with room in between for other things, like watching that newest documentary on seals with Jon or waking early for a run.

Her new routine goes like this:

Around noon on most days, Martin and Melanie come into the café, sending the bell over the door jingling and approximately ten cats meowling insistently at their feet until Martin scratches beneath each of their chins in turn and Melanie collects some of the treats that Georgie keeps behind the counter in her hand and tries to pretend like she doesn’t like the way that the cats rub against her arms and hands when she kneels down to feed them. Martin orders a cup of tea—usually black with milk and a sugar, but sometimes it’s Earl Grey or gunpowder green—and Melanie gets an espresso drink that makes Georgie’s head ache just looking at it.

And as she hands the mug of tea to Martin, she’ll say, conversationally, “So, Martin, what kind of tea does Melanie like?”

Or: “Is Melanie more of a savory or a sweet kind of person?”

Or: “What’s Melanie’s favorite movie? Does she enjoy movies? What kinds of movies?”

Today, Georgie hands Martin his tea—black with milk and a sugar, the usual, nothing noteworthy or special about it—and says, casually, “What’s Melanie’s type?”

Martin nearly drops his mug. “Sorry, _what?_ ”

Georgie’s face begins to heat, but she barrels on. “You know—her _type._ Men, women, blonde, brunette—who she _likes._ ”

Martin’s staring at Georgie like she’s got three heads. “Uh. I have no idea?” His cheeks are tinged with pink, and Georgie _does_ feel a bit bad for making him uncomfortable, but the curiosity burning up inside her is a powerful thing. It keeps her mouth closed and her expression encouraging as Martin stutters out, “I- er, I think she- well, that is to say, I’m _fairly_ certain that she- er, that she doesn’t… date men? At- at least that’s what it seems like!” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Last year, this chap—Greg, maybe? I don’t know—asked her out for dinner after one of our shoots. He was nice enough, you know—strong jawline, that kind of ‘swooshy’ hair, nice teeth—”

Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and he cuts himself off. “Right, anyway. She said no, like it was obvious—not in, like, a mean way! Just like she was surprised by the offer. And when I asked her about it—” Martin shrugs. “She said he ‘wasn’t her type.’”

“I see,” Georgie says, keeping her tone carefully neutral and trying very hard to pretend like butterflies haven’t taken residence in her stomach. “Thank you, Martin, that’s very helpful. Enjoy your tea!”

“Wait,” Martin says, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Why did you want to—?”

“Ah, sorry, I- I’ve got another customer to deal with,” Georgie says quickly, deliberately ignoring the fact that the till is being sufficiently managed by Tim at the moment. “Great seeing you, Martin!”

Georgie thinks Martin might have said her name again, maybe even asked her a question. But she turns and retreats to the other end of the counter before she can hear it, brushing a curious Chairman away from the gate as she does so. And if her cheeks are as red as the heat in her face leads her to believe, at least Tim doesn’t mention it.

* * *

It’s after the seventh time that Melanie corners Jon in the back room of the café and grills him for details about Georgie that Jon finally _gets_ it.

“Oh,” Jon says, apropos of nothing, sitting tucked into Martin’s side on the couch in his flat, the drama that Martin had wanted to watch playing softly in the background. “Melanie likes Georgie.”

Martin makes a sputtering, choking noise at that, something in between surprise and disbelief. “Okay?” he says, in that confused-yet-intrigued voice he gets when Jon changes the topic in a way that makes perfect, logical sense to him but that Martin can’t quite follow.

“It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, waving his hands in the air absently. “All of a sudden, Melanie wants to _talk_ to me, but only about Georgie, and _only_ when Georgie’s not around. And it’s all _what’s Georgie’s favorite food?_ and _does Georgie like parks or museums better?_ and _what kinds of flowers does Georgie like?_ ”

Martin sighs. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“And when I tried to tell her that just because Georgie and I dated, it doesn’t mean I know what kind of _flowers_ she likes, she got this _weird_ look on her face and just- just _left._ ” Jon pinches the bridge of their nose between their fingers. “And then today, she asked me if Georgie likes women.”

Martin lets out a stifled laugh. “Just like that?”

Jon nods mutely. “I suppose it’s rather ridiculous it took _that_ for me to figure it out.”

Martin laughs again. “Maybe. _I_ didn’t realize that Georgie liked Melanie until she asked me what Melanie’s _type_ is. Nearly dropped my tea.”

_Wait. What?_

Jon shifts so that they can get a good look at Martin’s face. “Georgie likes Melanie?”

Martin’s expression folds into confusion, then realization, then something softer. “Oh. Yeah, she- she does. Huh.”

Jon considers, very briefly, making a joke about _terrible taste._ The amount of restraint they exercise to keep it in is truly monumental. They’re sure that Martin can see it written all over their face, though, given the chastising look Martin gives them. 

“Sorry,” Jon says, though _technically_ they’ve done nothing that warrants an apology. Then: “So I suppose we ought to tell them, then?”

“What?” Martin’s looking at Jon like they’ve just suggested they microwave the water for their tea. “No, no, we should definitely _not_ tell them.”

Jon frowns, shifting in place so that they can more fully face Martin. “Why not? If there’s mutual attraction, I don’t see any problem with helping to- to _push_ it along a bit. Lord knows _we_ could have used the help.”

“Jon,” Martin says, not unkindly. “If Georgie would have suggested that you ask me out, or even told you that I _liked_ you, what would you have done?”

“I—” Jon stops, sucks in a breath. “All right, _fine,_ I probably would have reacted poorly, or more likely just wouldn’t have believed her. But, as Georgie keeps _telling_ me, our experiences are not universal.” They cross their arms over their chest with a sigh. “I just _hate_ that trope, where the entire plot revolves around some- some _misunderstanding_ or intentional obfuscation of information that keeps the love interests apart.”

“I know,” Martin says gently. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe they’d take it well. But I _honestly_ don’t think it’ll come to that. Melanie and Georgie aren’t nearly as emotionally repressed as we were—”

“ _Hey!_ ”

“—and _besides,_ even if we don’t tell them outright, it doesn’t mean we can’t _nudge_ a bit here and there.”

“Nudge,” Jon echoes.

Martin gives them a conspiratorial grin. 

“Martin,” Jon says, trying to keep their smile under wraps and failing miserably. “You know how bad I am at subtly.”

Martin takes Jon’s hand in his and squeezes before pressing a soft kiss across their knuckles. He doesn’t say a word.

Jon loses the fight with his lips, and they curl upward against his will. “Fine, fine. No promises, though.”

Martin hums, giving Jon’s hand another squeeze. “You know we’re going to have to rewind the movie, right?”

The groan Jon lets out is more than a little overdramatic. “Why you like this- this _drivel,_ I’ll never understand.”

“Hey, this _drivel_ won two BAFTAs.”

“Ugh. No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

The end of the movie is, predictably, bad. But when Martin presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead before standing to go wash their mugs, Jon can’t bring himself to mind.

* * *

It’s two and a half weeks later that Jon finally, inevitably, slips up. Which, in his defense, is twice the amount of time he thought it would take for either Georgie or Melanie to finally ask the other out. So really, it’s not his fault at all.

It goes like this:

On Saturday nights at eight, Jon goes to Georgie’s flat, they order pizza or Chinese or Indian, and they put on paranormal investigation videos. Technically, it’s research—coming up with new places or events to make a _What the Ghost?_ about, seeing what the rest of the community is doing, familiarizing themselves with other people’s work in case they ever need to network. In reality, it usually devolves into Jon picking apart their research as _sloppy, unsubstantiated, complete falsification of facts, an utter embarrassment to the field of paranormal research_ and Georgie complaining that _that’s not even how ghosts work, you can’t use an EMF there because of the power lines, that’s not even an_ **_orb_ ** _that’s a dust particle on your camera lens._

In short, it’s the highlight of their week. Jon had to cancel once, and Georgie never let him hear the end of it.

Tonight, they’re watching an investigation of the Cambridge Military Hospital, and Georgie’s nearly reached a fever pitch, her increasingly frustrated hand-waves having narrowly avoided knocking over their half-full wine glasses twice now.

“—and that’s just a _few_ reasons why they’re doing it all completely wrong!” Georgie says, ending the sentence with a long, drawn-out groan. “I swear, one of the _only_ respectable shows in this business is Ghost Hunt UK.”

Jon eyes Georgie with no small amount of skepticism. “Well. _Respectable_ is pushing it a bit.”

Georgie spins and points a stern, accusing finger at Jon. “Do _not_ start. Nit-picking aside, Melanie’s tactics are solid, and at least she doesn’t _blatantly fabricate_ her results!”

“Just plays it up for the camera, then,” Jon says under their breath.

“ _Jonathan._ ”

Jon bites back a groan. “ _Fine._ ” Then, like pulling teeth: “I… _suppose_ that, historical inaccuracies aside, if… if I _had_ to choose a show that I believed to be the- the _least_ fraudulent, I might— _might_ —be inclined to pick Ghost Hunt UK. But I _cannot_ excuse sloppy research, _Georgina._ ”

Georgie’s sigh is labored. “I suppose that’ll have to do.” She turns back to the television, and as she does so, she says, “You know, I thought that since you two were spending more time together, you might have warmed up to her.”

Jon just stares at her. “ _What?_ ”

Georgie shrugs, reaching for her wine glass. “She comes into the café all the time now. I assume you’re not meeting up in the back room to discuss your mutual love for weird, esoteric books, right?”

Jon’s face heats up, and they press their lips very firmly together. “I… no. I suppose not.”

Georgie hums, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m just glad you two are friends now. God knows it’ll make it less awkward when she comes over to record for the next episode of _What the Ghost?_.”

“The next episode of—?” Jon cuts off with a sigh. “Georgie, you didn’t tell me that you were bringing Melanie on as a guest star.”

Georgie looks at Jon then, a strange expression on her face. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Jon reaches for their own wine glass, guilt coiling in their stomach. “No, I- I’m sorry. You just never mentioned it.”

Georgie gives Jon an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I- I suppose I thought maybe she’d mentioned it to you?” A small laugh. “Unless you _were_ actually talking about weird books.”

“No,” Jon says sullenly. “That would have been _nice._ That would have involved _actually_ talking and not just being grilled for information about _you_ , and what _you_ like, and whether or not _you_ would like her.”

Two and a half weeks of carefully maintained restraint crumbles in an instant, and Jon’s wince is full-body. Georgie’s eyes are burning into the side of Jon’s face, and they say quickly, “Er. Forget I said anything, please.” They gesture to the screen helplessly. “I- I think they’re analyzing their footage now.”

“Jon,” Georgie says, setting her wine glass down on the table with a _clink._ “What did you just say?”

“Georgie,” Jon says, “I am _begging_ you.”

“ _Jonathan Sims._ ”

Well. So maybe it’s entirely their fault. In for a penny, in for a pound, they suppose.

So they send a silent apology to Martin, set their wine glass down again, and open their mouth to speak.

* * *

Martin’s got Jon’s head resting on his chest and his arm curled around Jon’s back, the linens soft beneath them and his mind half-drifted off to sleep, when Jon says, quietly, “Georgie knows.”

“Mm?” Martin says, not quite awake. Then, after an extended pause, the words register, and Martin says, “Oh. Did you—?”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Jon’s already nodding, the motion sending his hair tickling against Martin’s chin. “It was an accident,” he says, his voice small. “It- it just came up, I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts off with a wordless noise of displeasure. Martin’s arm tightens around Jon, his thumb rubbing small circles against Jon’s arm. “Hey, hey. It’s fine. You know I would never be _mad_ at you for something like this, right?”

Jon makes a sound remarkably similar to a scoff. “Yes, I know. It’s not- I’m not _guilty,_ just- just _frustrated._ ” There’s a small pause. Then, Jon says, quieter, “I suppose I’m worried that Melanie’ll hate me for it. We- we’re not _friends,_ per se, but she trusted me not to say anything to Georgie. She _asked_ me not to say anything, and I- I did it anyway!” 

“You didn’t mean to,” Martin says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple. 

“I don’t think that matters much.”

Martin just hums. “What did Georgie say?”

Jon pauses for a moment. Then, with a small chuckle, he says, “Uh. I’m pretty sure it was something like, ‘Thank fuck, I’m asking her out tomorrow then’?”

Martin can’t help it; he laughs, more audibly than Jon, and soon they’re both giggling on the bed, Jon’s laughter a warm, rumbling feeling against Martin’s chest. “Well,” Martin says finally, once he’s gotten his breathing under control a bit. “I suppose that’s good, then.”

“Quite,” Jon says, an audible smile in his voice.

There’s quiet for a moment. Then, because Martin can’t resist: “So it really is that easy, then? One person can just ask the other out? Goodness, why didn’t _we_ think of that?”

Jon makes a noise Martin could only describe as _grumpy._ “Go to sleep, Martin.”

“All right, all right,” Martin says, humored. Then, after a moment: “I love you.”

Martin can feel Jon smile against his chest. “I love you too.”

* * *

It’s not utterly freezing outside the next day, which Georgie is infinitely thankful for as she leaves the café in the hands of Jon and Sasha at quarter to five and makes the short commute to Melanie’s studio. She’d considered, briefly, just asking Melanie out at the café—pulling her aside to _ask her a question_ , or possibly spelling it out in the windows if she was feeling bold—but it felt a bit too _stale._ And besides, Fridays were always busy days at the café, and between taking orders, restocking the pastries and sandwiches, and taking care of a mishap with a certain grey-haired, muffin-loving cat, Georgie had barely had time to flash Melanie a smile, much less _ask her out on a date._

God, Georgie hasn’t been this nervous since uni.

Georgie’s been standing outside the studio for only a few minutes, debating whether or not to go inside or to just _wait_ on the sidewalk for Melanie to come out, when a familiar voice says, “ _Georgie_?”

The butterflies in Georgie’s stomach flutter, trying to climb up her throat and out of her mouth. She turns to see Melanie standing just a few feet away, her cheeks and nose dusted red from the chill and a hat pulled firmly down over her forehead and ears, a little logo of a ghost emblazoned upon the front of it. 

The _What the Ghost?_ logo.

Georgie honestly thinks that, in this moment, she might actually kiss Melanie King right here and now.

Instead, she says, “Are you off work?”

Melanie’s forehead creases, and it’s so _cute_. Georgie wants to reach over and smooth it flat again. She keeps her hands firmly in her pockets. “I have a few more things to do with the footage, but it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour, so- yeah, soon, I guess? Er, why?”

“Um.” Georgie shifts in place, the nerves in her stomach overtaking her quite suddenly. The words stick in her throat like honey, and she clears her throat once, like it’ll free them. “I’ve been, er. I’ve been wanting to try this new Indian place, over in Clapham? Martin, uh--he says you like Indian food?”

Melanie’s just _staring_ at her. Georgie steels herself, tries to ignore the stutter of her heart in her chest, and says, “Also, there’s a new Paranormal Activity in cinemas, if you’d like to go with me. After dinner, that is.”

Georgie waits approximately a second and a half before saying, all in a rush, “A date, Melanie. Will you go on a date with me? Tonight, if you’re free.”

Then, Georgie clamps her mouth shut and waits. No matter how badly she wants to talk to fill the silence.

The silence that only lasts a few seconds before Melanie laughs, her face breaking into a smile of disbelief, and says, “Oh. Yes, I- that sounds lovely.” Then, enthusiastically. “Yes, absolutely.”

The butterflies flutter once more, excitation and elation filling her in equal measure. “Great. Do, uh. Do you want to meet there, or…?”

Melanie _blushes,_ which is a sight that Georgie thinks she’ll treasure forever. “Why don’t you just come inside?” she says, opening the door to the studio. “We’ve got central heat and shitty coffee.”

“Ah,” Georgie says as she steps inside. “That explains the daily visits to the café, then.”

Melanie’s cheeks grow a more vibrant red, and she looks away quickly. “That’s not the only reason,” she mumbles. Then, louder, and a bit hesitantly: “Do- do you want to help me with the footage? It’ll, er. It’ll go faster with two sets of eyes, and Martin’s left already.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, her throat so swollen with affection she can hardly breathe. “I- I can do that.”

Never, in a million years, would Georgie have said that her ideal date began sitting behind a desk in a too-cramped office, staring at a screen and pointing out little glitches in the editing to be smoothed out. But her hand brushes against Melanie’s every so often when she moves and her knee is pressed up against Melanie’s where she’s sitting next to her in a chair they’d dragged over from Martin’s office, so it’s really no wonder that Georgie’s cheeks are flaming and her heart is stuttering in her chest by the time they finally get to the actual _date_ part of the night.

And it just feels so… _easy._ Georgie takes Melanie to the Indian place, and they sit and eat chicken vindaloo and paratha under the red-yellow glow of the lights, just low enough to feel romantic but not so much so that Georgie can’t see the way that Melanie’s eyes light up when she talks about her latest hiking trip at Beinn a’Chrulaiste in Scotland.

“I’ve always wanted to hike St. Kilda,” Melanie says, twisting her fork in her chicken absently, “but, y’know… it’s got the Lover’s Stone, which is _super_ popular with couples, and it always just felt weird, I guess.”

“Maybe we could go someday,” Georgie says, because she’s always been a bit too bold for her own good.

Melanie looks surprised for a moment before a small, coy smile comes across her lips. “I dunno—hiking through the wilderness is quite a bit different than sitting in your bedroom talking into a microphone. D’you think you’d be up for it?”

“I’ll have you know,” Georgie says, stabbing her fork at Melanie for emphasis, “that I do field research too! Jon’s the one who does most of the ‘history’ bits of it.”

Melanie lets out a small, bitten-off groan. “Right. Yeah, that tracks.” 

Georgie considers telling her that she’s very much like Jon, in a way. But she decides that bringing up exes is not exactly the _best_ first-date conversation material. So she picks up on a story about her last field research trip out to Minsden Chapel and brushes the topic away for another day.

For another _date._

Georgie can’t stop smiling.

The film is fine, if a bit trite. Melanie’s hand in hers, coming to rest there thirty minutes in, is much, _much_ more than fine. And when Georgie can’t stop herself from flipping her hand over and twining their fingers together, she’s rewarded with a small squeeze and the faintest of smiles, caught out of the corner of her eye.

They live on completely opposite sides of London, it turns out—Georgie in Acton and Melanie in Dulwich—and so the grand gesture of walking Melanie to her doorstep and then leaning in for a kiss like some couple out of a rom-com is out of the question. Still, Georgie is nothing if not persistent. So when Melanie stops in a secluded spot just outside the cinema, makes a small, aborted gesture that’s almost a shrug and says, “Well, I- I suppose this is it, then. I, er. I had a nice time,” Georgie decides that she’s something of a hopeless romantic after all, and her hand squeezes tighter around Melanie’s when she goes to pull away.

“Yeah,” Georgie says, certain that she sounds utterly infatuated but unable to convince herself to care. “Yeah, me too.” A pause. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

Melanie lets out a short, clipped laugh. “Yeah, that- that sounds lovely.”

Georgie can’t help herself. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Melanie’s look of surprise quickly morphs into an amused grin. “ _Tomorrow?_ God, am I that good of company?”

“Mm, just a bit,” Georgie says with a fond grin to match. Her other hand comes up to brush gently against the side of Melanie’s cheek, the pads of her fingers catching against a few stray strands of black hair that have fallen around the shell of her ear. She hears Melanie’s breath catch as she takes a small step closer, enough so that the space between them is filled with the tension of _too close not close enough._ Then, teasingly: ”How do you feel about coffee?”

Melanie’s laugh is closer to a snicker. “Oh, I think I’ll manage.” A pause. Then: “Won’t be as good as yours, though.”

Georgie’s heart does something funny at that, a twisting, swirling sensation in her chest. “Flatterer,” she says, but it comes out barely more than a whisper. 

Were they always so close together?

Melanie looks at Georgie then, something hot and burning in her eyes that Georgie feels reflected in her own mind, body, and soul. Her hand squeezes around Georgie’s, just once, and she says, “I’d very much like it if you would kiss me now, Georgie Barker.”

And so Georgie threads her fingers gently in Melanie’s hair, leans in, and kisses her. And everything—the softness of her lips, the little sigh she gives into Georgie’s mouth, the feeling of her hair between Georgie’s fingers—is so, so much better than she’d ever imagined it to be.

She kisses Melanie, memorizing the feel of her lips beneath hers, and begins to chart her way forward to all the kisses to come. She envisions the little kisses, like this one, and the passionate kisses, and the chaste kisses to a forehead or temple or back of the hand, and the sleepy kisses in the morning when neither of them would be awake enough to do much else than smile against the other’s mouth and trade quiet _hello_ s. And with each passing image, the ember in her chest grows more and more until it’s fully ablaze, heating her from the inside out with a burning desire for what’s to come.

Melanie squeezes her hand once more before departing, leaving Georgie with a quiet _I’ll call you_ and a smile so soft Georgie fears she might break it if she holds it too close. Georgie stands outside the cinema for a moment more, watching until Melanie disappears into the shadows, with lips and palms burning with a quiet, comforting heat that she can feel despite the nip of winter air against her skin. Then, she turns and begins to make her way back to her flat, a nervous energy curling in her stomach as she walks that finally, when she opens the door to her flat to reveal a very insistent Admiral rubbing against her ankles and purring at the approximate volume of a chainsaw, resolves itself into a bubbling excitement.

She can’t wait to fall in love with Melanie King. 

Georgie feeds the Admiral, flicks the lights off, and goes to bed. And if her dreams are full of inky-black hair and thin-fingered hands and soft lips, pressing warmly against hers, then she finds she really doesn’t mind much at all.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [link to the tumblr post!](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/post/643113932914114560/written-for-lesbianbirds-for-the)


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